


legerdemain

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Clothing Porn, Con Artists, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fade to Black, Fancy Dress, Gambling, Getting Together, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Post-Solo: A Star Wars Story, Scoundrels Being Scoundrels, Solo: A Star Wars Story Spoilers, Vignette, hand kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 22:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: Han Solo might have a thing for the way Lando kisses everyone’s hand but his.





	legerdemain

**Author's Note:**

> I fully blame [Artemis1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/pseuds/Artemis1000) for daring to show me [this gifset](http://randomingoftherandomness.tumblr.com/post/174345272882) in which Lando kisses hands.

Han noticed it the first time they met, sitting across from one another at the sabacc table, the haze and heavy scent of cigarra smoke clinging to the air. After all, Han was a noticer. He noticed things. It was how he’d survived the Control Zone back on Corellia; it was how he’d escaped the Control Zone at all. It was how he’d stuck it out in the mud for three years with the Empire, mostly of the metaphorical variety, true, but occasionally and distressingly the very, very real thing. The point was, in the midst of throwing cards at the table, pushing wealth back and forth across it, Han noticed what Lando was doing.

It was a minor thing, sure, just a gloved hand pressed gently to his quick-talking mouth, squeezed between nimble fingers in what at the very least was a friendly gesture, stroked by a stray, perhaps unaware thumb, somehow more intimate than the rest put together. Even so.

Han filed it away anyway. Every scrap of information was good when credits were on the line. It might be useful before the evening was out, might not be. Didn’t hurt him one way or the other to make note, though. Besides, it was an interesting detail, a hint of softness beneath all of Lando’s bravado and superficial, weaponized charm.

It wasn’t Han’s way, but it seemed to work for him. It certainly worked for the beings around him, who fluttered and clung and surrounded Lando like he was the light on which they wanted to burn themselves. That wasn’t Han’s way either, but he could maybe see the appeal. Guy wasn’t bad looking in the slightest and he knew his way around a sabacc deck.

Couldn’t ask for much more in this galaxy than that.

Not that Han wouldn’t try.

“You might want to quit while you’re behind,” he said.

*

The next time was actually their third time meeting. It was an accident, of course. After Han had won the _Falcon_ , he’d figured Lando really, actually, truly wouldn’t want to see him again. A gambler’s courtesy; you didn’t rub your wins in the face of the loser, not when he had decided to not be a sore loser about it. No, Lando’d conceded with all the grace and charm he could muster, words spoken through gritted teeth, a fragile smile, his final words a request that Han take good care of her, the one thing he could ask that Han would gladly have done anyway.

Needless to say, Han hadn’t expected to see him again. And certainly not on Nar Shaddaa, hunkered down in a grimy cantina, the only being in the place without a speck of dirt on him. His clothing sparkled yellow and blue in a sea of browns and grays and olive drab, visible from the top of the stairs that led down into the bar, a vision in an otherwise ugly place.

He caught and clasped the hand of a young, tough-looking woman—the sort you could find all over Nar Shaddaa, beautiful and dangerous and fully capable of kicking anyone’s ass—and brought it to his mouth, hiding a smile behind her scarred-up knuckles. Han tightened his own abraded hand into a fist. Smashing it against the face of a Cragmaloid probably wasn’t the smartest use of it, but he’d gotten away clean enough. Might’ve fractured it a bit if the pain lancing up his arm was anything to go off of, but he had some spare bacta back in the _Falcon_ and a decent enough boneknitter if it came down to it.

Even if Han didn’t know who Lando was, he’d have been drawn to him, eyes catching on the gleam of his personality, huge even from ten meters away.

Of course, for that very reason, Han stayed as far the hell away from the booth where he held court as humanly possible, hunching over his drink at the bar. His hair fell into his eyes as he watched the ice melting into his whiskey until it was watered to just the right degree for Han to knock the entirety of it back in one go.

It wasn’t Han’s business what Lando was doing here, but then his blue and yellow clad nemesis approached, his step obvious to Han’s ears and Lando made it his business.

It hadn’t seemed much like he was paying attention to anything beyond his throng of worshippers.

Han would have to remember that.

“Your friend, Chewbacca,” Lando said, “where is he?”

“Back with the ship.” Han’s mouth twitched in a sneer, busted lip pulling painfully as he grimaced. He lifted his finger and pushed his glass back toward the bartender, the nearly universal signal for _another_. The bartender nodded, stayed quiet, and, more importantly, poured a heavy measure more of whiskey for him. When Han pointed again, he got another glass and poured just as generously for Lando, maybe even more so. “What are you doing here?”

“Same thing I do everywhere I go,” Lando answered. “Play my hand wherever the cards take me.” A smile flitted across his face, a playful little thing meant to downplay a truth he apparently wasn’t willing to admit to: landing on Nar Shaddaa meant you’d royally fucked up somewhere else in your life. “So you are taking care of my ship.”

“She’s my ship,” Han answered, clinking his glass against Lando’s. “Of course I take care of her.”

“Not taking care of yourself though by the looks of it.” Lando tipped his chin to indicate the state of Han’s face. “Hear you’re running with the Hutt Cartel these days.”

Han arched an eyebrow. Jabba the Hutt might’ve been a low-life gangster, but he paid well. At first, it’d gone swell. “I wouldn’t go that far. I got wind of a job and took it. That’s all.”

“Looks like you took it all right. I think I can see the indent of Rooty’s tusk in your fingers.”

“Cragmaloid’s name is Rooty?” Han asked. “Of course it is. So what do you care? Gonna kiss it better?”

The words were out of his mouth before he’d even thought about through and the image was in his head not too long after that. Probably Lando’s hands were soft, but not as soft as he’d have liked them to be. His mustache would tickle a little across the sensitive skin of the back of Han’s hand.

He’d flush a little, like he was doing now just thinking about it. Good thing the light in this cantina was shit. Good thing the whiskey was already starting to go to his aching, possibly concussed head.

There wasn’t a better excuse for a blush in the galaxy than an old-fashioned head injury.

“You didn’t even know his name when you decided to acquaint yourself with the guy?” Lando laughed, incredulous. “You are a brave and foolish man. And I hate to say it, but you need a doctor more than you need me.” Laughing again, he shook his head. “I’m surprised he didn’t leave you with an imprint of the ground on your face.”

“You ain’t seen the whole of me yet,” Han replied, taking a drink, ice clinking against his teeth. “Might be you’re not entirely wrong.”

“Ah, well, isn’t that a pity. Not that I’m interested in seeing the results of violence done against your person, of course. I do have standards.”

“Oh, of course. And I don’t meet them, is that it?”

“No,” Lando said and Han couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “Not in the slightest.”

Han couldn’t help but huff in amusement even if it did hurt his ribs a little. “I’ll rub off on you eventually.” And if he waggled his eyebrows a little bit, so what? The only contact he’d had with a person who didn’t want to kill him in the last month was Chewie. Even if Lando didn’t like him, it was nice to talk to someone who wasn’t looking to take a pound of his flesh from him. It was, he had to admit, more than a little lonely—from time to time. There weren’t a whole lot of people he could trust. “I always do.”

Lando’s nose wrinkled. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’ll see,” was all Han said in response. “One day, you might even like me a little.”

“In every one of your dreams, smuggler.” Lando stood, cape rippling over his shoulders. His hand curved around Han’s shoulder, a perfect fit, but not the fit Han wanted. It certainly didn’t make an ache settle low in his gut. That was just the—gut injury talking. Yeah, Rooty had kicked him in the stomach, hadn’t he? Another perfectly good excuse for why Han’s insides were performing somersaults. A credit tab slid out of his other hand and clattered onto the bar. “But hey, I’m feeling generous tonight and you look like shit. Drinks’re on me.”

Han let his own fingers touch the back of Lando’s hand, as good a gesture of gratefulness as he could manage. “I’ll owe you one.”

“Just take care of yourself,” Lando suggested and Han wasn’t even a little bit fooled that Lando actually cared. It sounded like professional courtesy, possibly professional interest. Han had officially become a potential contact; it was the way of things in criminal circles. You got to know a guy and suddenly he became the guy you thought about when you needed a partner and eventually you actually got desperate enough to use him and then you were friends, maybe.

Han still hadn’t quite figured out how it worked. Every time he brought anyone else into his jobs, it backfired spectacularly.

Good thing he had Chewie. That made things easier. Bearable.

Stumbling back to the _Falcon_ , fuzzy-headed and looking to forget, he didn’t let himself think again about Lando’s hands. In fact, he made a vow to himself that he’d never think about Lando’s hands or his mouth or his own hands anywhere near Lando’s mouth or anything to do with Lando at all.

It was real easy to do.

Right up until it wasn’t.

*

“Baron Thesilan,” Lando said, smooth as the thick-woven shimmersilk that molded itself to his shoulders and fell across his back, a lavender so delicate it was almost gray, almost pearl, almost pink. Every shift of his body, even just when he breathed, reflected the light and set off the subtle patterning of the cape he’d chosen for this particular event. Supposedly, the good baron loved purple and Lando wanted to play every advantage available to him.

Han still didn’t know why he was here; might as well have been a decoration for all the good he did, but at least he could watch Lando’s back while he—

While he—

Bent forward, bowing to the waist, he took Thesilan’s smooth, large hand in his, kissing the ring he wore, a gaudy bauble worth less than half what he wanted everyone to believe it was worth because he was both smarter and more foolish than everyone around him. And it was bad enough, that kiss, left such a sour taste in Han’s mouth that he had to swallow back, but then Lando turned Thesilan’s palm over, cradled it between both hands, and pressed a second kiss to Thesilan’s fingertips.

If anyone except Lando had tried it, they’d have probably found themselves without lips to kiss with, but Thesilan merely smiled, pleased, at Lando as he straightened up and lifted those fingertips to brush, featherlight, across the high arch of Lando’s cheekbone.

The nerve of this guy. If Han had his way…

“It’s an honor to have you here,” Thesilan said, cordial and pompous and perfectly articulate in every particular. Han would knock the smug pleasure off his stupid, perfect face if this was the time and place for such a thing. But it wasn’t and Lando would kill him and somewhere along the way, Han had found himself as willing to fall in line with Lando’s schemes as Lando had done the reverse. Most of the time it worked out all right. “I’ve heard such tales of your skill with the double viol. I had to know for myself.”

“All in good time, my dear baron,” Lando answered, folding his hands behind his back. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate a few hours to prepare before my performance tonight.”

“Of course, of course.” Thesilan’s hand fluttered through the air, like he was perfectly willing to indulge Lando in his every whim. Here and now, guests be damned, if the heat in his gaze was anything to go on.

And it was. With Lando, it always was. Mostly Lando never did anything with it as far as Han knew, but there was always a story left untold. And first times for everything. Just because Han didn’t know didn’t mean it hadn’t or wouldn’t happen.

Thesilan was, possibly, handsome enough to be worth Lando’s time.

The bastard.

But Lando merely smiled, enigmatic, at Thesilan in return, conceding nothing and offering little.

“You know the way,” Thesilan finished, his dismissal of them finally complete, if perhaps a little disappointed. “I look forward to the performance.”

Now, Lando’s smile turned genuine and Han hated himself for being able to tell the difference when it looked exactly the same. “As do I.”

“And feel free to join us at the sabacc table afterward.”

“Baron, now you’re speaking my language.”

As soon as the door closed on Lando’s suite, Han leaned against the rich, carved wood, his fingers curling in the unforgiving, uneven surface. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I always know what I’m doing,” Lando answered, a distracted whirl in the middle of the room as he threw off his cape and tugged at the hem of his sleeve, his collar, clever, clever hands releasing the truly indulgent number of buttons on his shirt. He ducked behind the sumptuous bed—good thing they weren’t staying, Thesilan hadn’t seen fit to give Han his own quarters and the suite was surprisingly devoid of comfortable furniture, Han was sure there’d be a fight about who got the thing—and pulled out his traveling case from under the bed frame. “You maybe want to quit gawking at me?”

“I’m not—” But as Han flushed, Han realized he was gawking. That was exactly what he was doing.

Damn him. Damn him to every single hell the priests on Corellia couldn’t even agree existed. Hell, damn him to other planets’ hells while they’re at it. Han wasn’t picky as long as Lando suffered.

Gritting his teeth, Han crossed his arms over his chest. “Last I checked, you were a competent gambler—” _Debatable_ , he thought, snide. “—not a double viol player.”

“What’s gambling but music by another name?” Stretching his arms over his head, Lando slipped into a shirt that maybe was the kind of thing a double viol player would wear, a cream linen thing that didn’t at all match Han’s conception of the man for all the interesting contrasts it made against his skin. Lando belonged in bright colors and sumptuous fabrics.

This was far, far too low-key for him.

Han wanted to take it from him and put him back in the silks and hemidroxl—yes, Han knew what that was now, no, he didn’t know how to identify it—fabrics Han had gotten used to seeing Lando wearing.

Pushing himself to his feet, Lando stepped out of his boots and dropped his trousers, replacing them with equally dark, if more finely pressed, ones. Han turned away in time to avoid embarrassing himself and hated himself for it. This sort of shit hadn’t ever bothered Han before—nudity was nudity, if a guy down to his briefs could even count as that—and it very clearly didn’t bother Lando now.

“Why are you asking this now, Han,” Lando asked, “instead of when I first asked you to come along? Are the credits I’m offering worth less all of a sudden? You getting cold feet?”

Han huffed. Couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t even deny its petulance either. “I just don’t know what I’m doing here. I figured I’d be… I don’t know. Swindling someone out of something. Threatening bodily injuries to people who won’t be swindled. I don’t know. _Something_.” Adopting a smarmy grin, he added, “Unless you just wanted an excuse to see me, of course.”

Best to prod Lando with an outrageous lie since he wasn’t being forthright on his own. Han had no illusions on at least a handful of scores and this was one of them.

“If I wanted to see you,” Lando answered, his response at the ready as he pulled on a pair of thoroughly bland black trousers, crisp and boring and sleek, “baby, I wouldn’t bother with an excuse.”

Han didn’t flush at the endearment. That would have been completely ridiculous.

“Look.” Finished buttoning up the trousers, Lando approached, arms open to clasp Han on the arms and then further up. His palms were warm as they kneaded into the juncture between neck and shoulders. “You’ll see why soon. Just trust me.”

The arched brow Han offered Lando could’ve been translated into a thousand different languages and been easily understood. At it, Lando merely laughed. “Yeah, okay, fair. So trust that I wouldn’t have brought you onboard without a good reason. I might be a risk-taker, but I’m not a risk-taker.”

“I don’t know what that means.” And though Han was loathe to do it, he shrugged out from under Lando’s touch. Those hands had no business being anywhere near him when their owner couldn’t stand the sight of him.

He’d done that before. Ended in tears every time.

“It means I’ve got a mark on that floor down there who’s gonna love the look of you.” Lando’s eyes skimmed down Han’s chest, torso, and thighs. “There’s very little accounting for taste in the galaxy.”

“You keep flirting with me like this, you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

Lando’s eyes darkened and the curl of his mouth was teasing and not disdainful in the slightest. It was, perhaps, the first time that had happened. Han definitely didn’t want to make it happen again. “Do your part tonight and I might not want to.”

“And what part is that? You never did explain.”

“Oh,” Lando said, turning away and walking very much as though he was still wearing his capes, drama trailing after him. It was only after he stopped and turned that he grew more sedate, more professional, more like a galaxy-class viol player than a galaxy-spanning scoundrel. “All you have to do is keep the guy distracted during the sabacc tournament. You keep this up and you’ll do just fine. I hear he likes them a little goofy.”

“Who’s goofy?” Han asked, feigning affront while biting back a smile.

Even if Han succeeded—and later, the pair of them boosting a speeder, pockets significantly heavier from all the cheating they’d just done, Han still wasn’t sure if that was what he’d done—it wasn’t the thrill of helping Lando win, as easy as a duet written specifically for them, it was the way Lando clapped his thigh and threw back his head and grinned, shouting to the ink-dark sky, and finally settling back as Han drove to say, “You’re not half-bad, Solo.”

As Han shifted into a higher gear and ignited the boosters, he grinned back. He had to shout over the engines to be heard. “I never thought you were bad at all, Lando.”

Lando’s gaze softened and grew curious, but if he wanted to say something, he kept it to himself and Han was too busy staging their getaway to investigate further.

Which was too bad really. 

Lando looked good when the full weight of his regard was on Han. He would have liked to have the luxury to indulge it a bit.

*

The tall, starched collar of Han’s shirt scratched at the back of his neck, tickled the hair he’d refused to cut despite Lando’s insistence that a neat hairline was absolutely vital if he wanted to survive a pickup on Canto Bight. Han had told Lando in no uncertain terms that Lando was full of shit, but now he was beginning to wonder if somewhere inside that nonsensical demand had been a reasonable suggestion because this sure as hell wasn’t a good time to him and maybe, just maybe, a haircut would have alleviated the issue.

At the time, Lando had merely sighed and said, “Maybe everybody on Canto Bight will have lost their collective sense of taste by the time we arrive.”

That would certainly have made things easier. Because although Han was as dressed up as he’d ever been in his life, he still felt severely underdressed. Seriously, there was a spavat caught tight around his throat, threatening to strangle him. Before tonight, he hadn’t even been sure what a spavat looked like and he certainly hadn’t known how to tie one.

Now, he knew far too much about both of those topics.

Leaning toward Lando, Han spoke directly into his ear. “I’m beginning to think you just like making me look like an idiot.”

“You do that well enough all by yourself,” Lando replied, quip at the ready, “and you certainly don’t need my help in that department.”

“Cute.”

Lando’s shoulders rolled and his cape rippled down his back in a cascade of glinting silver. It looked sleek, soft to the touch, and Han absolutely didn’t want to let it slip between his fingers as he pulled it from Lando’s body. “I like to think so,” Lando said. His gaze slid Han’s way, warm and easy as smooth, aged whiskey. “For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t use the word ‘idiot’ to describe you tonight.”

Pleased despite himself, Han opened his mouth to speak, maybe say something clever or, hells forbid it, true, like _thank you_ or _I could be your idiot if you wanted_ or _does this mean you like me_.

Lando gestured toward an elegant woman who’d just stepped onto the casino floor. Blonde hair streaked with gleaming white, dressed in deep purple contrary to current fashions—at least according to Lando, who’d mentioned that every season brought a fresh trend—she stole every inch of attention in the room. In Canto Bight, you would think such a thing was impossible since there was so very much to draw the eye, but more than a few beings turned her way anyway.

Lando included. “Excuse me.”

And instead of having time to make some very fine statement about how Lando must be going soft if that was how he felt about Han, Han was forced to watch as Lando walked away, his smile gleaming for this random woman who was so very important to the implementation of this scheme.

His mouth pressed a kiss to her gold-gloved hand and she turned her head, neck taut, exposed just for him, like there was a place she would rather him kiss and it was somewhere near the bounding pulse of her carotid.

Han knew the feeling and it wasn’t always a pleasant one. But he knew she stood a better chance of it happening than Han did if the darkening of his gaze was any indication, visible even from here. Presumably, that was the way these things sometimes went, though Han still didn’t know from first-hand experience. Lando had always remained as coolly professional as possible. At least when Han was around.

_You’re getting ahead of yourself, pal,_ he told himself. He hasn’t even made his offer yet.

And it wasn’t so very long ago that Lando didn’t ever want to see him again. And now, sure, sometimes Lando called him in for backup, said he had a habit of making it out of sticky situations alive, and didn’t demand more of a share than was entirely proper for his role. Besides, he sometimes added, Chewbacca was a fine addition to any crew Lando might put together.

Sometimes, Han thought Lando was only looking for an excuse to get back on the _Falcon_ again. Which was stupid, Han would’ve happily let him on the _Falcon_ whenever he wanted, job or no job.

Either way, it had little enough to do with Han, whom he tolerated, at best, and—

Their eyes locked from across the woman’s knuckles, his mouth still pressed against her hand. And for the briefest of moments, Lando stilled, eyebrows furrowing, before he released her and stepped back, grinning, entirely for her.

“Allow me to introduce you to my business associate, Han Solo,” Lando said, guiding her toward him. There was little enough interest for him in her eyes now that she’d met Lando, but he was, technically, the bait upon which she was to stake Lando in the high-rolling game of sabacc set to start in…

Han glanced down at his personal chrono, something he only ever wore in casinos, where the house was determined to keep everyone from knowing the time of day.

…an hour.

Plastering on a haphazard grin he absolutely hadn’t practiced in a mirror, Han held out his hand and took hers between his. He didn’t kiss her hand, too, couldn’t, but that was okay. His kiss wouldn’t have held up to Lando’s anyway. “I prefer artistic partner,” he said, something he absolutely had practiced in that same mirror. “He’s the credits. I’m the brains.”

“He creates performance art pieces,” Lando added. “I make them viable and accessible to the people who wish to experience them.”

They weren’t natural con artists, though Lando came closer to it, but as long as they could grift well enough to get Lando a seat at that table, it didn’t matter that lying in this particular manner wasn’t a talent or learned skill for either of them. Still, the woman—and Han really should have gotten her name, though perhaps it not knowing it would work in his favor, the public often loved artists who didn’t give a damn about them—seemed moderately intrigued.

“And what is the topic of this piece, Mr. Solo?” she asked, painfully polite and perfectly cordial. Her attention, of course, remained almost entirely on Lando.

“High-stakes sabacc tournaments,” Han answered, affecting his most pretentious airs. Unsure how well it was working, he looked toward Lando, who nodded and offered him a subtle thumbs up.

“How very interesting,” the woman replied. “And do you play?”

Han ducked his head. Sure, yeah. He played and he was better than Lando when luck was on his side, but he wasn’t meant to be the player tonight. “Not well. Mr. Calrissian is the artist in that arena. It’s why he’s here. He intends to explain the finer points to me while we watch the proceedings later in the evening.”

And there was the hunger in her eyes, that intrigue they’d intended to instill in her. She turned and fully faced Lando, her hand on his arm. “You play, Lando?”

“Some say I’m not bad.” He shrugged his shoulders, feigning indifference. “I’ve won at a high-stakes table a time or two. It’s a hobby of mine, but I’m no professional.”

“Nothing as high as the stakes Canto Bight can offer, though, I’m sure.”

Lando huffed, demure, and flashed that pretty smile again. It was a trustworthy smile, the kind that other people could wind themselves into, find themselves bought without even realizing it at all. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, I don’t believe there’s a higher stakes game in all the galaxy than can be found on Canto Bight.”

“I should like to see you play,” she asserted as though she herself had come up with the idea. It wouldn’t hurt her to stake them, a mere drop in the bucket that was her deep, ever-expanding pockets. She probably spent more credits at dinner than it would take for Lando to get that seat he so coveted. And if they won… it would mean so much more to them than she could ever have understood. “I can explain to Mr. Solo the finer details of the game.”

Han grimaced while the woman’s attention was still turned away. It was the ideal outcome, the one they’d hoped for, but Han didn’t exactly relish having the rules of sabacc shown to him by a jet-setting person of means.

“I couldn’t possibly, my dear…” Lando said, though his thumb rasped thoughtfully over his goatee. Even without seeing the woman’s face, he knew she was falling for it, wanted him desperately to accept her so very generous offer. This was something few people would be able to do for him, she would have known, and it likely pleased her to be one of that select few. Then, he conceded his a charming, warm tip of his head. “Only if you accept the proceeds should I win the tournament.”

And this was the true gamble of the night. If she said yes, they’d have to make an enemy of her and go down with a lie, hoping they could get off Canto Bight before she called security. But Lando had believed she’d say no, had been willing to bank on it.

_Let’s hope you’re right_ , Han thought, and waited, breath held.

Then, the woman scoffed, inelegant enough that it made Han like her a little bit more than before. “Nonsense,” she said, finally including Han with a conspiratorial grin. How great must life be for this woman, that she could so easily throw fifty-thousand credits at a pair of strangers for the hell of it? “If you win, use the credits to fund this art project.”

They ended up splitting the difference when Lando did, in fact, win, proving Lando to be a more conscientious person than either himself or Han had believed possible: they returned her buy-in and kept the rest of the pot for themselves.

Not so very bad in a day’s work and Lando now found himself with a line on a potential patron any time he liked. Han couldn’t complain about the job in the slightest—anything he didn’t have to run away from was a good job indeed—and yet, Han couldn’t help but notice he’d done that thing again, this time kissing the woman’s palm as they’d said farewell.

Soured Han on Canto Bight quite a bit, that, her gold glove contrasted against Lando’s skin, the wicked curve of his smile, the gentle way he’d held onto her.

As they sailed through the priority departure lanes, Lando in the copilot’s seat while Chewie took some time off in the back, Lando didn’t seem to notice anything amiss at all, happily chattering away about how smooth that whole operation had gone down, heedless of the mire of Han’s thoughts, the pangs of jealousy that struck, haphazard, anytime he let himself think too hard about how much he liked having Lando in the _Falcon_ again, how much he wished it was his own hand—

Anyway.

Yeah, smooth.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Not this other thing that would definitely, definitely ensure nothing was ever smooth again.

So Han bit his tongue, answering in noncommittal hmms and uh huhs as Lando talked and talked and talked his way around the sabacc tournament, giving Han every blow-by-blow even though Han had seen it all.

“Might have to actually create that art piece for our dear Madame Ti’retha,” Lando mused, happy, as he stretched and leaned back, arms raised above his head.

“Like hell,” Han answered, prepping the ship for lightspeed. “I’m dumping your ass in the nearest neutral system and enjoying my retirement. I’m no artist.”

Lando just threw his head back and laughed, reaching across the cockpit to slap Han on the shoulder. “You’re gonna pay off your newest debt to Jabba, lose a lot of credits in some gambling den or other, and get yourself immediately into more trouble is what’s going to happen.”

Han pursed his lips and couldn’t deny it. “I might retrofit the _Falcon_ , too, somewhere in there.”

That was exactly what he was planning to do. And he was going to do it as far from Lando as he could manage.

Yep.

Absolutely.

If that resolution lasted only three months, that was three months longer than Han had truly expected it to last.

*

Han gritted his teeth so hard his jaw creaked from the strain, aching despite the glowwine Lando had insisted on bringing to him instead of the whiskey he’d asked for. Lando had merely murmured something about needing Han to stay sharp. And sure, glowwine didn’t have the same intoxicating effects that real alcohol and even synthol had, but he sure as hell was over here trying to keep a level head while a giddy, buzzy feeling flitted around his stomach, like the only thing glowwine consisted of was courage and joy and damn the bastard for giving this to him, letting him feel like any fucking thing in the galaxy was possible.

He really, really couldn’t explain how he got dragged into these messes, let Lando talk him around to participating in whatever nonsense he’d managed to cook up. And at this point, he had no idea why Lando kept coming to him with these ideas when Han mostly stood in a corner while Lando did his thing.

But since they pretty much never involved getting shot at, Han kept taking them. That was the only explanation that made any sense. That and Chewie felt comfortable abandoning him and he usually, _usually_ came back with at least some of the credits he’d been promised.

So that was why. It had nothing to do with the way his heart climbed his throat when Lando asked for his help, part of him always seeing it as another chance to finally take a chance. He never did, of course, too well-acquainted with how Lando operated and how much Han was merely a convenient partner for this sort of thing. But right now… right now he thought maybe he could.

At least it would be done.

And Lando probably wouldn’t bother trying to work with him again.

The bits of him floating on the manufactured pleasure provided by the glowwine reminded him that it was possible Lando might just want what Han wanted. There really was no reason why Lando couldn’t find someone else to be point man. That had to mean something, right?

That had to—

Han swallowed the last of his drink and scanned the crowd for Lando’s distinctively yellow cape, the hint of pale blue trim. It didn’t take him long to find it, nor the man beneath it. Even from across the room, Han could see the way he was playing to his crowd, smiling and laughing and clapping shoulders in farewell as he prepared to waylay another group of fragile, easily flattered dilettantes into participating in a very special, very elite sabacc tournament.

For each member of the group, he offered a kiss, the cheek, the hand, both. It didn’t seem to matter. Lando threw out kisses as though they were party favors, cheap and plentiful, and not something highly coveted by a very much not intoxicated man named Han Solo.

Han’s frustration overflowed, tipped finally by the glowwine and the rush of pleasure each of Lando’s marks seemed to experience at the brush of Lando’s mouth against skin and glove alike.

This was it. Han was done.

It was easy enough to intercept Lando, grab him by the elbow. He handed off his empty glass to the nearest nobody, some overdressed, pompous looking young man with more credits than sense. Unused to such treatment, he didn’t have enough time to do more than open his mouth before Han turned, steering Lando away.

“Enjoying yourself?” Lando asked.

“You don’t have to keep up the charm offensive with me,” Han snapped, though he desperately wanted just that. The glowwine-inspired bravery was beginning to wear off and all he had left was a sick sensation in his gut and the scent of Lando’s cologne filling his senses.

Lando waved at a passing guest, mind forever on the goal and never on the man currently squeezing his elbow. “Oh, whyever not, Han? I thought you liked the charm offensive.”

“I’d like to get this job done even more,” Han replied, wondering how in the hell everything had changed so quickly. Wasn’t he just imagining how he was going to tell Lando how he felt? What he wanted? But Lando was only paying half as much attention to Han as Han wanted and there was so little point and—

Lando stopped him, pushed him toward the nearby wall with his body. “What’s the hurry?” Lando asked, searching Han’s face. He wasn’t quite close enough for Han to say he was crowding Him in, but Han wished he could have. Head tipping quizzically, he added, “Are you not enjoying yourself? I thought—”

“I think you’re mistaking you enjoying yourself for what I’m doing.” Han poked his finger in Lando’s chest. “I’m standing around being useless.”

“You’re more than welcome to mingle,” Lando said, light and unconcerned. His hand wrapped around Han’s shoulder and squeezed. “Let’s get you some more glowwine. That’ll improve your mood.”

Han sighed in disgust and annoyance. More glowwine probably would help. But that didn’t matter now that he was already backed into a corner.

The only way through was forward, even if he had to scream through it, eyes closed.

Damn Lando kriffing Calrissian. This never would have happened if they’d never met.

He had to know by now. Had to. Lando made his living reading people and Han felt even more obvious than the throngs who’d spent this entire evening making eyes at Lando, hoping he’d like them best of everyone there.

Well, Han had gotten there first. And Han had had to watch each and every one of them get the one thing Han never had. A bunch of selfish, lucky bastards, the lot of them.

And Lando was playing with him. There was a curl at the corner of his mouth that signaled amusement and a quirk of expectation in his eyebrow. And Han had to swallow at the keen interest in his gaze. Didn’t mean Lando wanted anything from him. Might’ve just meant he was waiting impatiently for Han to make a fool of himself.

It never seemed to take very long around Lando.

But Han tugged at his jacket, pasted on his very best smile, the one he wore when he was walking into a no-win situation with determination in his heart. He told himself he could do this, that if he just said the right words, it’d be done and he’d never have to worry about it one way or the other.

There were other men in the galaxy, men like Lando even. Men with mischievous grins who disdained Han just as thoroughly who might actually spend the night with him if he asked. None of them wore capes quite as well as Lando did, but nobody was perfect.

“What’dya say?” Lando asked, prodding, cajoling, daring Han to speak. “More glowwine?”

Han’s eyes dropped to Lando’s mouth. _Let’s go all in, shall we?_ “It’s not glowwine I’m looking for.”

Lando’s lips twitched. “What is it you’re looking for?”

His fingers wound in the soft, supple fabric of Lando’s cape and Lando didn’t even berate him for destroying the perfect line of his silhouette or wrinkling the cloth and he pulled Lando close and he said, as smooth as he knew how, “You.”

His hand wrapped around Han’s, gripped it tight enough that Han’s knuckles ached.

“Well,” Lando answered, voice deepened by pleasure and maybe, maybe just a hint of arrogance, “took you long enough.”

Han could have argued; he probably should have. But Han wasn’t always the smartest about when and when he shouldn’t open his mouth and he didn’t want to bring this to a grinding halt if he questioned Lando about it.

Then, Lando brought Han’s hand to within inches of his mouth and stopped.

“Let’s take this back to our suite,” Lando said, his breath caressing Han’s knuckles, warm enough to send a shiver of need down Han’s spine. And even though Han desperately wanted to feel the soft press of Lando’s lips against the back of his hand, even more he wanted this to go back to Lando’s— _their_ suite. Even if the entire job went south, this was… this was more important.

“Yeah,” Han said, stunned that this was happening, like a switch had been flipped and now Han was fully exposed to the light. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

*

The door had barely closed before Lando shoved Han toward the bed with a huff of good-natured frustration. “Are you always this dense?” he asked as he tugged free the clips that held his cape in place, Han sitting on the edge of the comforter, bending down to tug his boots free. “Or is it always this impossible to get you where we both want to go?”

“Depends.” It was a little hard to keep up with the whirl of fabric, the blast of words, the realization that holy shit, they were doing this.

“On what?”

And Han really didn’t have a good answer for that, so he focused entirely on divesting himself of his pants instead, keeping his head down because if he didn’t, he was afraid he’d lose the thread of what was happening entirely. His skin felt stretched too tight across his bones, adrenaline and arousal mingling to leave him shaking with every possibility that filled his head, each possibility collapsing until there was only the one in which Lando lovingly folded his cape and draped it across the back of a nearby chair and strode toward him and pushed his jacket off his shoulders and lifted his chin with those damned hands, so much softer than even he could have imagined.

His thumb brushed across Han’s lips, pushed at the seam and slipped inside just enough that Han could swipe his tongue over the pad. “You got a thing for hands, Han?”

Narrowing his eyes, Han nipped lightly Lando’s thumb. “Not precisely.”

“That works out just fine then,” Lando said, snatching Han’s hand up and crowding Han further up the bed so Lando could straddle his hips. He turned Han’s hand in his, pressed his fingers into Han’s palm, and pulled it toward his mouth as Han balanced himself on the other, their combined weight pushing Han as deep into the plush mattress as possible. Warmth spread through Han’s body, lapping at every inch of him in time with his ever-increasing pulse. “Because I kind of have a thing for yours.”

If Han sighed, a little broken and surprised as Lando finally fucking kissed him, neither of them had to acknowledge it. As Lando dusted kisses across Han’s palm, up his arm, toward his shoulder, his chest, his neck, he pushed Han down, and maybe Han was a little bit wrong, because with the way Lando’s hands splayed across his torso to ruck up his shirt, maybe Han could have a thing for Lando’s clever, ridiculous hands.

“You think I didn’t have you figured out the second you walked into that bar in Nar Shaddaa,” Lando said, quiet, almost as though he was monologuing for himself. “I knew exactly what you wanted all the way back then.”

Han groaned as Lando ground down against him, arousing even through so many layers of fabric, which just wasn’t fair as far as Han was concerned. He hadn’t been this close to the edge so soon in more years than he cared to think about, but he might as well have been a fumbling teen again for how much he wanted Lando. “Are you gonna talk all night or are you gonna do something about it?”

Lando leaned in, one hand snaking into the waistband of Han’s pants. “I’ll have you know I’m fully capable of doing both.”

“Yeah, well,” Han answered, breathless as he hardened beneath Lando’s touch. “Some of us like to focus on—on one thing at a time. Do it right.”

“If this is your way of telling me to put up or shut up, you’re gonna have to do the same.”

Han wrapped his fingers around the back of Lando’s neck and pulled him in, close enough that Lando’s mustache tickled his upper lip. His other hand cupped Lando’s cheek, palm half covering Lando’s mouth.

He was more than happy to both put up and shut up, show Lando how it was done.

*

“You know,” Han said, crossing his arms as he approached, “you could always just ask me out on a date. Doesn’t always have to be a job.”

“I like my work,” Lando replied, throwing an amused glance his way. “It’s how I got you, isn’t it?”

“I’m pretty sure it was me who got me for you, but you keep telling yourself that.”

Lando laughed and pointed out the gentleman they were preparing to beat at cards. He called it homework. Gotta know the man to play the man. Most of the time he didn’t do his homework; he didn’t need to, but apparently this guy was on another level. “I thought I was going to have to kiss the hands of every being in the damned galaxy to get you to admit to anything. What did you do that whole time?”

“Showed up,” Han answered. “Even when you made me wear the most uncomfortable formal wear ever devised.”

Eyebrow raised, Lando considered Han now. “And now you’re back to the vests, huh? Romance is dead in this galaxy.”

The man stopped at the bar tucked in the back corner of the room. He was dressed all in white, hair slicked back. Nothing special from the outside, but had a special knack for cards by all accounts. Han slapped Lando on the back and pushed. “Oh, look,” Han said, “time to do your job. Go get ’im.”

Lando grumbled, but he tugged on the lapel of his jacket, brushed the dark half-cape he currently wore. Plastering a smile, he trudged off toward the man, spinning briefly to offer Han a not-at-all subtle salute.

When he reached his latest target, he held out his hand.

For a handshake. Just a handshake.

Han’s eyes scanned the room as he bit back a smile.

Guess Lando was a bit of a sentimental softie when it came down to it.

Han could work with that.


End file.
